


Don't Count Your Eggs Before They Hatch

by twowritehands



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Bottom Eames, Established Relationship, M/M, Mpreg, not your usual mpreg, tuck verse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-03
Updated: 2013-01-03
Packaged: 2017-11-23 10:57:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/621351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twowritehands/pseuds/twowritehands
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You know what’s going to happen, right? I mean, I warned you--“<br/>“Yeah!” Eames cuts in, whirling around, eyes wide, “No, yeah, I know! The egg will be a dud.” He shrugs as if to say no big deal, I can handle it.<br/>Arthur wants to believe him. He wants to.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Don't Count Your Eggs Before They Hatch

**Author's Note:**

> To explain the Mpreg universe created here:  
> All is explained as it goes, but here’s a heads up:  
> This world features men called Tucks who conceive, lay eggs, and then carry their hatchling babies in pouches until they’re as big as newborns and can come out. This idea is a combination of ovum and marsupial gestation, which here exists in humans alongside placental gestation. Both types of pregnancies happen in the Tuck universe and why really shouldn’t be questioned as far as real science goes. It’s all a very weird idea I had and I mean it all in good fun. But if you are interested in reading the technicalities of how I think the world would work with such men in it, read my post about it on LJ.

[a link to the tuck-verse post](http://twowritehands.livejournal.com/20049.html) on LJ

WARNINGS: miscarriages, failed pregnancies, infertility

[]

Warm sun, green grass, blue sky, and a con running as smoothly as warm syrup out of a can—walking away with half of O’Riley’s money won’t be as far off as they had thought if it keeps going this well—so Arthur is having a good day. At the sound of an approaching golf cart, he smiles enough to let his dimples show and chirps cheerily to the men he’s mingling with on the green, “Ah, speak of the devil!”

Leaving his rich and clueless mark to the company of rich friends, Arthur meets the forger as he climbs out of the cart. Eames gives a short, distracted grunt of a greeting. His polo shirt is an Easter yellow, white sweater tied around his shoulders, cleated shoes, fingerless gloves, gelled hair under a white cap; he looks the part… except…

Arthur frowns and lowers his sunglasses to peer at his partner, jaw dropping. “What are you doing?” he asks.

Eames looks around innocently to find Arthur staring incredulously at his legs. “Whot?”

“You can’t wear _sweatpants_ on a _golf course_!” the point man hisses.

Annoyed, Eames jerks his bag up out of the back of the cart, clubs rattling, “Sure I can. They’re white. They match.”

Arthur guesses it right then; it’s a flock of birds taking flight in his stomach, an alarm jangling in his instincts. He _knows_. He just doesn’t want to think he could be right. He won’t acknowledge the possibility. He can’t. So he pretends that he doesn’t think what he thinks... He tells himself it’s ridiculous to jump to conclusions.

But Eames won’t look him in the eye so he blurts the question before he can help it, “What’s the matter with you?”

“Nothing, Arthur, the cleaners just lost my trousers.” Eames chimes with false charm, crooked teeth and his usual bright smile.

Arthur wonders why he seemed to think Eames would just outright answer that question with the truth. The truth that he... _No_ , Arthur insists to himself. _He’s not_. _We’re too careful_.

But wearing _sweatpants_ to play golf with millionaires?

Arthur deadpans him to let him know he isn’t fooled. But before he can get another word in edge-wise, Eames is heading for the pack of rich corporate blue-bloods who are beginning to t-off and greets them with a loud exclamation that is followed by laughter and handshakes.

Arthur has no choice but to play along. If anyone else notices the sweatpants, they don’t mention it.

[]

Two weeks later they’re in the Caribbean with heavier off-shore bank accounts, unpacking suitcases in the same bedroom of their private beach-view cabin. Arthur, thinking on that thing he isn’t supposed to be thinking of because it’s outrageous, puts his arms around Eames’ waist from behind, “What’s going on with you?”

Eames sighs, “Nothing, love, really. I’m just…”

“Sweatpants, Eames?”

Eames is quiet for a moment and then answers, “I needed the elastic waistline... Trousers wouldn’t do up; I was too bloated.”

“Fuck,” Arthur whispers, dropping his forehead on Eames’ shoulder and rolling his head back and forth there. “Fuck, I knew it.” He moves away, covering his mouth, looking out at the sand and the waves but not really seeing them. Shit. Shit. Shit.

“Could be nothing.”

Arthur huffs drily and says through his teeth, “That’s bullshit.”

Eames nods, head dropping low. Completely silent, he just stands there beside the bed over his suitcase, looking down at the pair of paisley socks in his hand. Arthur watches Eames watch the socks, and he keeps thinking the silence will be broken. That something will happen. But they only end up waiting.

“Well, it was bound to happen eventually, I guess.” Arthur murmurs awkwardly. “I mean, birth control isn’t 100% effective….”

Eames just nods again without looking up, without making a sound. Arthur thinks about what’s to come now, and he thinks he’s going to be sick. He has to swallow twice before he can find his voice again to say,

“You know what’s going to happen, right? I mean, I warned you--“

“Yeah!” Eames cuts in, throwing the socks into the case and whirling around, eyes wide, “No, yeah, I know! It’ll be a dud.” He shrugs as if to say _no big deal, I can handle it_.

Arthur wants to believe him. He _wants_ to.

Eames crosses the room and takes Arthur’s hands, a sheepish smile, “Don’t worry about me.”

“But, I don’t know… you hear what that they say about the dud pregnancies--“

“Not gonna happen to me.” Eames promises resolutely. “I’m not exactly some weepy sod who longs for a joey is my pouch, am I?”

“No,” Arthur chuckles at the very idea. He idly slips his fingers under Eames shirt and traces the lip of the pouch in Eames’ abdomen. He can’t see it but he knows there are bold black tattoos there.

“And I love you, alright?” Eames says, “I _know_ it’s not your fault you’re a dud maker. You couldn’t _choose_ who your parents were. Hell, your parents couldn’t even choose who they loved, right? No more than we can, yeah?”

Arthur grins and Eames, mirroring him, pecks his lips and then squeezes him close in a hug, whispering into Arthur’s neck, “I’m a tough tuck, so don’t worry about me.”

[]

_Arthur had been fifteen and recently made a man by the girl next door when his father took him fly fishing and went through great pains to string more than seven words together, to look Arthur in the eye and treat him like an adult._

_“Listen, Art, you’re mama and me--well, we wasn’t born the same way. You understand about the different ways, don’t you?”_

_“Of course, Dad, I’m in high school.” Arthur snorted as he flicked his wrist and sent his fly sailing out into the middle of the river. “You learn that shit in, like, the first grade.”_

_“Yeah, of course you do, of course you do… um…” The older man scratched his chin, distracted and shifting uncomfortably._

_“Dad?” Arthur asked, realizing for the first time that this trip didn’t have much to do with the fish._

_“So I guess they tell you about what happens when joeys and buttons have children?”_

_“Yeah. Some shit about infertility.”_

_“And you know that applies to you, right? You’re mama’s a joey, son. Cracked right outta an egg and pouched it for a few months. But me, I have a belly button ‘cos I was in a womb and that means you and your sisters, y’all can’t have no babies.”_

_“Yeah, Dad, I’ve known this since I was about eight years old.”_

_“I don’t mean to insult your intelligence. I just wanna talk to you about what it all means. You’ve got responsibilities is what I’m saying.”_

_Arthur made no comment, simply reeled in and cast out, watching his fly skitter around the water as he father continued,_

_“It’s going to be a hard road for you, son, and that hurts me. You see, now that you’ve started falling in love, one day it’s going to be_ real _love, like what I found with your mama and you’re going to maybe want a family and--“_

_“Yeah, maybe,” Arthur cut in, laughing from the awkwardness, and not making eye contact, “But, listen, Dad, there’s adoption and stuff, so…” he shrugged._

_“Hold on now, you ain’t letting’ me get to my point.”_

_“Sorry.”_

_“I’m not trying to tell you that you’re gonna be shit outta luck about havin’ a family. Of course there are other ways to do it. Lot’s a babies out there need a good home. But you’re going to_ _have to watch yourself, boy. You_ ain’t _shootin’ blanks! You kin still git a girl pregnant--or a tuck, don’t matter—but it’s all goin’ to end the same. The science says the DNA just won’t line up and early on in the pregnancy it all just stops going right, and that’s because we mixed you up on a chromosome level. You don’t have the right design to properly blend with anyone else. Don’t matter if it’s a joey or a button, you just don’t have the right genes for it. Do you understand?”_

_Vaguely remembering biology classes that he slept through, Arthur nodded._

_“Tears your mama and me up inside but there ain’t nothing we can do about it. Your sisters are the same as you. Just like any girl you knock up, they are going to be having_ miscarriages _if they ain’t careful, Art. Same thing with any tuck you make eggs with. They won’t hatch. That’s what I need you to understand. Losing a child, even an unborn one, ain’t a walk in the_ _park. It’s hard on a soul, to go through that. Which brings me to my point. You gotta be_ careful _, son. I want you to promise me you’re going to be_ responsible _. You’re going to do your best never to knock anybody up, because it’ll only break everyone’s heart. Especially after you get married.”_

_“You mean keep wearing condoms even_ after _I’m married.” Arthur replied drily, only just realizing the wisdom of this and not liking it at all._

_“It’s a shit hand you been dealt and all the caution in the world probably won’t save you, but you can try. And you’ll have to be honest and upfront about what you are every time you start off in a new relationship. You gottta warn them what they’re signing up for. Ain’t fair otherwise. You got me?”_

_“Yeah.”_

_“It ain’t your fault. If anybody’s it’s your mama and me who should be blamed, but--“_

_“I don’t blame you, Daddy. I know how much you love her.”_

_The man grunted, mumbled down at the water swirling around his high boots, “More than I care to face, most days.”_

_“And I understand what you’re saying. If I love them, I shouldn’t put them through that.”_

_“Right… So you promise you’ll do the right thing?”_

_“Yeah. I promise.”_

[]

The sea runs down Arthur’s skin in cold little droplets as he heads back to the cabin, cursing that he forgot such a basic thing as a towel when going swimming; now he will have to drip on the floor as he gets one. The door slides open on quiet tracks, meaning that Eames greased it unexpectedly.

Next Arthur smells the lemon wood polish and then he sees Eames at the bed, tugging on a brand new fitted sheet with about seventeen pillows piled in the floor at his feet. The vacuum hasn’t been put away yet, all the curtains are drawn.

“What’s this?” Arthur snorts.

“Books call it nesting.”

“Oh.”

“Bloody _irritating_ is what I call it.” Eames grumbles, “As I recall, I used to like this bed very very much. Completely satisfied with it. Never wanted to leave it. But now _nothing_ I do makes it good enough. This is Egyptian cotton, by the way. Enjoy it because it’s more than I ever thought I’d spend on something as _boring_ as sheets.”

“Hey,” Arthur cuts in, “can you bring me a towel? Don’t wanna drip.”

Eames turns and heads right for the bathroom, still grumbling, “and suddenly I think there’re too many windows. It’s like I need solid walls, _corners_. I looked it up in the book--damned thing only mentions it once and in a bleeding _footnote_ , but apparently some tucks are more in-tuned with our primal instincts and we need safely fortified nests more than we need comfortable ones. Jesus Christ.” He hands Arthur the towel, shaking his head, “Who would have thought that _I_ would forgo comfort at any moment in my life, hm?”

Arthur snorts as he starts to dry off, “Well, I’m not really surprised. I mean, we do live a dangerous life. You’re used to looking over your shoulder to keep yourself alive. Now with instincts to protect something vulnerable…”

“Yeah, well…”

They fall silent and then Arthur asks, “So you’ve been reading the other book I got you, right? The one for tucks with dud daddys?”

“Yeah,” Eames answers with a puff. “Fucking depressing, that, but yeah, I’ve been reading. You should, too, by the way. There’re parts for the dud dad. They say it can be just as traumatic for you as for us. Maybe even more so because it’s your fault.”

“Right.”

Eames sucks in a breath, “Didn’t mean that like it sounded.”

“You know I didn’t want this to happen, right?” Arthur asks, barely containing his sudden turn of anger, “I mean, you were on birth control and I _still_ wore a condom.”

“Darling, I honestly didn’t mean it like it sounded. I don’t blame you so stop worrying.”

“But I _am_ worried!” Arthur snaps, “I fucking _love you_ and now you’re going to have this egg that’s essentially going to be no more than a _rock_ and you’ll start to hate me and--“

“Hey, hey,” Eames grabs him into a hug, “What the hell? We’ve talked about this, right? I _can’t_ hate you. I would have left you a long time ago if I could.”

“I just… I don’t want to see you go through what Kristen did.”

“I’m not your sister, mate.”

“Yeah, but--“

“Listen, she _wants_ kids. That’s why she keeps putting herself through the same thing over and over again hoping it’ll turn out differently. But me, I don’t want a baby. This is a fluke. So we’re already at the advantage, right?”

Arthur nods sullenly and, chuckling, Eames pecks him on the forehead. “Won’t be long now and I’ll lay this thing and we can go back to work, forget all about this. Good as new.”

Arthur wants to believe him. He _wants_ to.

[]

_They met too long ago to keep straight how it happened, but that was never the important part and maybe that was why it was allowed to be forgotten. They knew each other like everyone in shared dreaming knew of the best forger and the dangerously precise point man. They worked together, saved each other’s lives once or twice but only in so far as it also saved their own, and they didn’t really know much about each other beyond how they took their coffee and those basic Fruedian things that one can read in every dream someone builds._

_The important part was the day Arthur realized that the tough, tattooed, muscled man with a gun was in fact not a man but a tuck doing a good job at pretending not to be a tuck. That was… well… that was a day Arthur was never going to forget. Maybe because it was the one and only time he ever had sex on a Ferris wheel._

_If the London Eye could really be considered a Ferris wheel._

_Back then, Arthur’s totem had been a marble hollowed out and filled with sand so that its weight was completely weird as it rolled in one’s palm._

_It stopped being his totem, of course, when Eames snatched it from him in his second-grade flirting method, the Pulling Pigtails Approach._

_“Hello, what’s this?” Eames asked, plucking it right from Arthur’s hand._

_“Goddammit!” Arthur cried, making a wild grab for it. Cackling, Eames closed his fist on it and put both hands behind his back. “Pick one, gorgeous.”_

_“Fuck you, give it back!” Arthur didn’t know why he was acting like getting it back fast enough would cancel the fact that his totem was compromised. As if there was a five second rule for totems._

_“Interesting totem, this,” Eames taunted. “Very interesting.”_

_“Fuck you very much. Give it back.”_

_“What’s the point? I know the secret of it now, don’t I?”_

_“Yeah but if I kill you it’ll be good as new again.”_

_Eames’ face fell and Arthur, high on his triumph, made a lunge for the hand that Eames had had the totem in last. But the forger twisted away, bringing his fists around front and bending over them like a game ball as Arthur played a mean offense, attempting to break in and grab the little marble._

_Suddenly, Eames straightened, hands wide open, marble gone._

_“Tah-dah!”_

_“Fuck. Where’d it go?”_

_“Not telling.”_

_“If it’s in your shorts I’ll go after it. I don’t care.”_

_“Ooh, promise you will? Would you play with my balls a bit while you’re in there?”_

_“Goddammit, Eames, we’re in public. Just hand it over.”_

_“Public? We’re the only two in this view box, darling. That’s hardly public.”_

_“It’s a_ glass _box hanging over London, that’s public.”_

_“Matter of opinion.”_

_“Give me back my marble.”_

_“Sorry, what’s that?”_

_“I said give me back--You heard me.”_

_“Lost your marbles?”_

_“Marble._ MARBLE _. Singular.”_

_“Say it.”_

_“No.”_

_“Go on, say it. Say_ I’ve lost my marbles _.”_

_“Grow up, what are you six years old?”_

_“I’m not the one with dimples who carries around a toy.”_

_“A marble is part of a game, that doesn’t make it a toy. By that reasoning a bullet would be a toy because it’s part of Russian Roulette.”_

_“Touche,” Eames said right as he grabbed Arthur by the back of the head and kissed him for the first time._

_The kiss was good, but Arthur pulled away, “My marble first, Mr. Eames.”_

_“Oh, you are stubborn, aren’t you?”_

_Arthur, losing patience and on the way to do it by then anyway, answered that by thrusting his hand down Eames’ trousers, down into his shorts as well, and groping around the bare flesh and course warm pubic hairs for the marble._

_He frowned when all he found was rapidly hardening flesh and sizable balls, “Where the fuck--Oh, shit, you didn’t stick it up your ass did you?”_

_Eames snorted, combed his fingers through Arthur’s hair over his ears, and his voice was very soft, a secret-telling voice, “Why would I do a thing like that when I have a much more accessible place to tuck things into?”_

_Understanding dawned on Arthur like fog burning away in bright sunlight. “You--You’re a…” he lifted the hand out of Eames’ pants to push up the loud silk shirt and there it was: a pouch in the rock hard abdomen right where Arthur had a bellybutton._

_He reached for it, fingered the lip where the happy trail started and then pushed his fingertips into the fold, sliding down to the knuckle into the little pocket of flesh. The marble was in there, warmed with body heat._

_“You’re a tuck,” Arthur laughed. He didn’t know why. He was just suddenly happy enough to laugh. If Eames was a tuck then liking him so much was natural. (Being from the rural south originally, Arthur would never find it easy to be a man who wanted other men. But wanting tucks. That was not the same thing. That was easier.) “You don’t act like a tuck.”_

_“And how many tucks do you know, personally?”_

_“Well, okay. I guess I mean that you don’t look like one.”_

_“Well, that’s true. But I can’t help it that I’m so fucking strong.”_

_Arthur laughed and, finger still hooked in Eames’ pouch even though the silk shirt had fallen back down to cover his hand, he leaned in and kissed the forger again. This kiss was filled with more heat, heat like what Arthur had found in the pouch, warm and private. His finger rubbed over the peaked little nipple inside the pouch and Eames hummed with pleasure._

_The kissing became groping and tugging at clothes and then Eames was face first into the glass, his trousers were jerked down just enough and Arthur’s fly was open. He paused to roll on protection and Eames sucked on his fingers for the prep and then Arthur was having some of the best sex of his life._

_It was fast and dirty and thrilling because it was in a glass box with all of London laid out below him, and Eames--God, Eames felt good. Looked good. Sounded good. Tasted good._

_Walking away from the London Eye, miraculously haven not gotten caught for the public indecency, the sun was setting and they were headed back to Eames’ hotel. Arthur cleared his throat and said as casually as he could, “My mom was marsupial.”_

_“Yeah?” Eames asked, sounding amused by the random choice of topic as well, probably, as the personal nature of it._

_“Yeah and my dad’s placental. So… you know, that makes me...”_

_Eames didn’t seem to follow at first but then he said, “Oh, right. Sterile.”_

_“No. Not sterile. That’s a myth. I don’t shoot_ blanks _. You could still get pregnant if I don’t use a condom. But the egg would never hatch.”_

_Eames just looked at him as they walked and Arthur felt like an idiot, shrugged without looking back at him, “So, anyway, I just thought... I don’t know. Just thought I’d put that out there. You know, as part of the getting-to-know-each-other-better part of the…”he realized he sounded like a fucking moron and stopped talking._

_Smiling, Eames stopped walking and pulled him close, “Sounds like you want us to be serious boyfriend and tuckfriend.”_

_Arthur huffed, suddenly thinking he shouldn’t want that and ready to deny ever thinking it was going to happen now that they’ve had such amazing sex but Eames kissed him and said, “Yeah, okay. Let’s do it.”_

_“Date?”_

_“Yeah. Fuck each other regularly, exclusively, and with gifts on birthdays. I mean it. You’re_ gorgeous _with an amazing cock so I’m in. Let’s be boyfriend and tuckfriend.”_

_Snorting, Arthur said, “Stop saying boyfriend and tuckfriend. You sound like we’re in junior high.”_

_“Well, I guess I could be grown up about it and ask you to marry me.”_

_Arthur choked and Eames howled with laughter and took his hand, started walking again, “So how’s that work, you don’t shoot blanks but can’t make babies?”_

_“Something about the chromosomes not being stable,” Arthur shrugged, “The fetus just stops growing and falls apart.”_

_“Yuck.”_

_“Yeah. My sister has already gone through some shit and trust me it can get ugly. Is that… I mean, there’s birth control but there’s always the possibility. Do you think you could risk--“_

_“Arthur,” Eames cut in. “Do you remember when you had your cock buried in my arse and I was begging for more?”_

_Arthur cleared his throat, nodded._

_Eames pecked him on the lips, grinning, “Well, that plus your dimples, plus your pathetic sense of humor, multiplied by how good you are with a gun? You’re worth the risk, I think.”_

[]

“Arthur!” A grip on his arm and a jostling pulls him from sleep. He opens his eyes to darkness and Eames’ voice whispers nearby, fingers sweeping down his cheek, “sweetheart, hey, wake up.”

“Hm?” Arthur asks, blinking until he starts to make out the moonlit room and Eames’ hulking figure crouched beside the bed. He becomes aware that the sliding door to the deck is open and he can hear the night breeze and the ocean, smell them both along with a musky scent that is pure Eames. “Eames, wha--?” he clears his throat, “Whazzamatter?”

“I…” Eames starts and then rushes, “I’ve laid the egg, so um…”

Suddenly Arthur is very awake. “You what?” He sits up.

“The egg. I thought… I don’t know, I thought you should know... Seemed weird to wait until morning.”

“Oh.” His answer strikes the atmosphere like a broken key on a piano, a clunk when there’s supposed to be music. Silence fills the room.

_Now what_?

Eames clears his throat, “So, erm, I guess you can go back to sleep. Sorry I woke you.”

“No!” Arthur catches him, stands and puts his arms around him, “I’m glad you woke me. We’re in this together. So… um… how do you feel?”

“Like I can’t sit down for a week.”

Arthur snorts, squeezes him, “My poor tucky.”

Eames returns the squeeze and sounds hesitant as he asks, “Do you even--do you want to see it?”

“Oh--yeah!” Arthur answers without thought because it seems like the right answer. He thinks asking to see it would have been the right reaction the moment he heard. Should have been the first thing to occur to him to say.

Eames turns on the lamp and motions to his side of the bed. Arthur looks and sees a pillow and on that pillow is a nicotine yellow egg, an oblong shaped softball.

“Wow.” Arthur looks from it to his lover, “You pushed this thing out of your ass without waking me up?”

“When I knew it was coming I went out onto the beach.” Eames admits and rolls his eyes at himself, “Kind of like a sea turtle, I guess. I don’t know. Felt right. The stars and the waves and all that…”

Arthur’s stomach swoops low and he somehow manages to find his voice even though it’s thick, “So, um… Why didn’t you burry it?”

The space that stretches out before Eames’ answer makes Arthur close his eyes and curse whatever gods there might be and then Eames says, sounding wounded, “Thought you might care to see it.”

“Eames,” Arthur sighs.

“No, I understand,” Eames cuts in, voice stronger, “From your point of view, it would have been the right thing to do. A clean break, a nice little ceremony and then move on with life, yeah?”

Arthur nods feeling a second softball lodging in his throat.

“But the book--there’s this whole chapter.” Eames turns and starts rummaging for the Dud book, “It’s why I wanted you to read it.”

“I was going to, but then--“

“No you weren’t.” Eames cuts in knowingly, “because you think you have how to handle this completely figured out already. But look, they say there’s hope. They say one in three hundred dud pregnancies actually reach full term, healthy happy babies!”

Just like Kristen keeps saying. Arthur’s eyes sting, “Eames, stop. It’s not going to hatch.”

The excitement which had blossomed over Eames hardens and he snaps the book closed, throws it down, “I know that. You’ve only told me about a million times.”

“I just don’t want you to--“

“I’m not _expecting_ it to hatch, Arthur. But if it can… If there _is_ the tiniest possibility that it will… how can I just leave it? How can I just stick it in the warm, safe sand where it might hatch and smother to death? _How can I_ _burry a baby alive_?”

Arthur sighs, sinking down onto the bed with his face in his hands, “So what now? You’ll nest with it?”

“Just until we’re sure it’s a dud.”

“Let’s give it away,” Arthur sounds like he’s begging. “Let a wannabe-tuck nest with it. That way if it doesn’t hatch, it’s her problem and if it does, she’ll take care of it. They say artificial pouches are just as good as real ones.”

Eames looks horrified but quickly smooths the emotion from his face, nods his head, “Yeah… yeah, that’s one way to avoid it all, I guess. And the plus side in it is that _you_ don’t have to be a father.”

“Hey, that’s a plus side for both of us!” Arthur snaps, “You promised me you would never want joeys!”

“And I didn’t!”

The past tense is a punch in the gut for the point man. Eames looks at the egg, shoulders sagging tiredly, and he corrects softly, “I don’t.”

Arthur can’t look at the goddamned egg or his tuckfriend. This has gotten _so_ out of hand. It’s so much worse than he imagined it would be. Eames crawls onto the bed behind Arthur, his arms going over Arthur’s shoulders, “Listen to me, my love. It’s going to be alright. I know it’s a dud. I just can’t… its fucking biology or something out of my control, but I just can’t leave it yet. And I don’t want to give it away. If I do, I’ll always be wondering. We both will.”

“This is so fucked up.”

“I agree,” Eames chuckles and Arthur looks into his green eyes, sees the same imaginative, intelligent, charming, hard-as-nails, dangerous grifter he fell in love with.

Maybe, he thinks, just maybe, they _will_ pull out of this disaster unbroken. Maybe Eames truly is the one person in the world meant for Arthur, because maybe he’s a tough tuck who can survive dud after dud.

Arthur kisses him with a thought to grab hold of that glimmer of hope, the hope that Eames won’t go soft and weepy, and hold onto it. Just a little repositioning and he has Eames laid out beneath him, kissing him back with equal ferocity, strong arms holding him tight. Arthur breaks their mouths apart, “Just us, Eames. It’s always going to be just us. The same old us. No matter how many duds, right?”

Eames nods, smiling up at him as he combs the hair over Arthur’s ear, “You’re afraid that when the egg doesn’t crack, I will.” He laughs here and pecks him on the mouth, “Always expecting the worst case scenario, that’s our Arthur.”

“I didn’t want this to happen.”

“Another thing you’ve told me a million times, love.”

“I know but if you--“ Arthur makes to drop to the bed beside Eames but the tuck inhales loudly and yanks Arthur back the other way, throwing him out of the bed. “Look out!” he cries, cowering protectively over the egg as Arthur lands elbows first in the floor with his legs still in the bed tangled with Eames’.

It happens so fast, Arthur is suffering carpet burn and lower back strain before he even knows it. He slithers all the way into the floor, bewildered, and then finally catches up to what happened. He sits up and Eames does as well, looking around with wide eyes, “Oh, sweetheart, fuck. I’m so sorry! It just--I--when you--and I just--”

Arthur starts laughing. The look on Eames’ face, the string of broken explanations and the mere fact that Arthur has literally never been _thrown_ out of bed before, it’s all just too funny. He gets to his knees and then crawls back up into the bed, laughing all the while, and Eames is laughing, too, pulling him in for a string of playful kisses and murmurs of, “welcome back, lovely. Where’ve you been?”

Eames takes a look at Arthur’s tenderized elbows and makes a show of kissing each one and then they settle in for the rest of the night with the egg well away from Arthur on the other side of Eames. Arthur is just about to drift off again when Eames says, “Arthur, shut the door.”

He opens his eyes and realizes the sliding door is in fact still open. Groaning, he gets up to close what he didn’t open because waking up with a pelican in the room is a lesson already long ago learned. He’s gotten three steps back when Eames says, “The curtain too.”

“What’s it matter?”

“Instinct to hide the nest; I won’t rest if you leave it open.”

“Oh. Right.”

“Thank you, love.”

He’s jumping back in when Eames hisses at him, “Careful! It says not to jostle the egg too much!”

“But it’s a--“

“Just humor me, yeah?”

“…Okay.” Arthur tries to reassure himself that it’s only instinct. He lays there looking up at the ceiling, swallowing yet another urge to say _it’s not going to hatch_ to plead with him _just promise me you’ll distance yourself from it for the next month, can you do that? Can you do that for me?_

As if something in his flattened voice says all of that anyway, Eames miraculously turns from the safely snuggled-up egg and curls up next to Arthur instead, head on his shoulder like usual. “You’re still more important to me than it is, Arthur. Despite how weird I’m being about it, I know it’s a dud.”

Arthur squeezes him, “I’m _so_ sorry to put you through this.”

“Don’t be. You’re worth it…. You’re worth it.”

[]

Arthur stands under scalding water, waiting for the nightmare to be over. With his eyes closed, he can see Eames curled around the egg like he had been when Arthur woke and looked over at him this morning.

The sheer desperation for nothing to fall apart grips Arthur painfully and he thinks he understands where religion comes from. He could use a higher power on his side right now, something to reassure him that he’s going to get his way and not lose Eames when they lose this egg.

“Hurry up, darling, he’s here!” Eames says, poking his head through the bathroom door. Arthur shuts off the water and can now hear someone knocking on the door. Toweling off, he listens as Eames answers it and greets the doctor.

He pulls on some underwear and puts the towel around his shoulders, stepping out of the bathroom.

“This is my boyfriend, Arthur,” Eames is telling a refined, aged black man with grey hair, dark freckles, and a kind smile. “The, er, father.”

Arthur smiles tightly and gives a curt nod, hanging onto the towel around his neck. “Hey, how’ya doing?”

“I’m well, thanks, I’m well,” the man says amiably, “You can call me Dr. Freeman.”

Arthur nods and asks outright, “Did he tell you I’m a dud maker?”

Dr. Freeman’s eyebrows jump up and he looks between them and then says graciously, “He mentioned it. Yes. But let’s have a look anyway, hm?” He heads over to the bed--Eames skitters to stay ahead of him and get there first, protectively tensing as the doctor calmly moves close to the egg and sets down his black bag.

“An easy delivery?” he asks.

“Easy enough, considering,” Eames laughs. “No accidents, either. Didn’t drop it or sit on it or anything.” Dr. Freeman chuckles and puts on a stethoscope, listens to the egg like one would a chest.

Arthur and Eames stay quiet as he does this. Eames watches the egg, chewing on the inside of his lip. Arthur watches Eames, heart twisting.

Dr. Freeman makes a low noise, a hum and he listens to different sides of the egg and then pulls the scope ends from his ears, looking around, “All’s well so far!”

Eames huffs out something frighteningly close to a sob and Arthur asks, “Wha--how?”

Dr. Freeman stands, hand up to slow their roll, “For now.” He looks deadly serious between the two of them. “But it can go south at any moment between now and cracking time.”

Eames nods, straightening his back like a soldier preparing for battle. Arthur nods, too, sullenly.

“Until that happens, you still have to be careful with it. Keep it warm. Don’t shake it. And from there I’m afraid all you can do is… wait.” He bobs his frail shoulders, grinning at them with a sparkle in his eye like they aren’t the first tuck and dud maker couple he’s seen and they won’t be the last.

Before Arthur can ask the doctor to explain to Eames the importance of not getting too sentimental, Dr. Freeman turns to the tuck and grins, holding out the stethoscope, “Wanna listen to the heart?”

Eames lurches forward, grabs the necklace and Dr. Freeman chuckles, shows him where to listen.

Arthur watches Eames’ smiling face as his fingers slowly maneuver the metal disk around the shell. Green eyes are shining, but focused on the middle distance as his attention is entirely on his sense of hearing. Arthur gets an overwhelming urge to kiss him and then he wants to kick Dr. Freeman’s ass. How dare he get Eames’ hopes up like this? Doesn’t he know it’s pointless? What kind of doctor is he?

“I think you should go,” Arthur murmurs to the doctor. The man looks around at Arthur, frowns at him, blinking. Arthur gets the weird feeling that the man is onto him and still not ashamed of what he did.

Dr. Freeman nods and collects his bag, saying to Eames, “Congratulations--to you both. And you can keep that necklace, young tuck. I think it’d do you _both_ some good.” He looks pointedly at Arthur who turns and heads for the door, opens it and holds it open.

The doctor tips his imaginary hat at Eames and then leaves.

“Arthur,” Eames says, “You _have_ to listen to this. Come here and listen.” He takes off the stethoscope and holds it out. Arthur walks over and takes it. But as Eames scuttles over to give Arthur room beside the egg, Arthur grips each end of the necklace and pulls it apart, ripping it into as many pieces as he can.

Eames shoots up to his feet, “What the fuck?”

Arthur throws down the ruined scope. “Don’t,” he says darkly. “ _Don’t_ get attached to it, Eames. I’m serious.”

Eames’ face darkens for a moment and Arthur holds his resolve. Eames breaks, looking tired. Then he nods, moves into Arthur’s arms, holds him. “You’re trying to protect me, I get that.”

Arthur pulls out of his arms, not looking at him or the egg. “I need to go for a walk.” He leaves out the sliding door, wrapping the towel around his waist and heading down the beach barefoot.

[]

_The first time Kristen got pregnant was an accident, too. Only it was the typical accidental pregnancy. Seventeen, thought she knew everything, that she would be with the guy for the rest of her life, and believed the prick when said he was a dud-maker like her. Not the brightest crayon in the box, she thought that meant they canceled each other out so she couldn’t get pregnant._

_Five months later, she miscarried and she said she never wanted to go through that again._

_Then three years later, she met the love of her life, and they got married, and they got baby fever. Every penny they make goes into treatments to help her carry full term, but it hasn’t happened yet, and Arthur’s been an almost uncle seven times now._

_Seven._

_The first time was grave—scary with the blood and everything in their bathtub. All the ones after that happened in her own house, and it was her husband calling 911, Mr. Right speeding down the highway toward the hospital with her praying in the backseat, the happy couple checking her in to state-of-the-art clinics weeks before anything bad happened and still coming home empty handed, hollow and sore and sick and tired but still wanting a baby._

_Mom asked to stop being informed every time the pee stick said yes. Dad asked her to divorce the guy, said if he needed kids so bad he should find a wife that can give him kids. They don’t talk anymore, but Arthur stayed in contact with her, didn’t seem right to leave her to the war alone._

_“Seven times, Kris. Shit. Why?” he asked her last time they talked, and she hadn’t been able to answer. She was home with some ice packs, some pills, some inspirational books. They had cremated the baby that day. The hospital had counted it as a baby this time, and not medical waste. In some sick optimism, Kristen thought that meant she was getting closer._

_How the hell does she do it?_ Arthur wonders, dropping to the sand and glowering at the water. An almost mother seven fucking times? Here he’s been an almost dad for twenty four hours and he can’t breathe.

[]

He’s cold when he gets back inside. The sun is hardly up, the wind is coming off the cool water, and he only had a towel during his walk with the birds. Eames is up, watching TV with the egg tucked in safely on a pillow, seemingly forgotten. He looks happy to see Arthur back, and it occurs to the point man for the first time that he _could_ leave, make this easier for everybody, since it’s his fault.

But Eames’ relief, half concealed by a casual greeting, is enough to make Arthur know he can’t leave now. He’s needed here. Responsibility; it’s all his fault, so it wouldn’t be fair to leave Eames trapped in a bad situation like this—in short, reap what you sow. Literally.

He dusts sand off his feet at the door without a word. Eames starts talking, “For all Dr. Freeman knows, darling, we’re a regular couple with nothing better to do but roost and raise joeys. It was bedside manner; he thought he was saying what we wanted to hear.”

Arthur nods on his way to the closet for clothes. He just doesn’t want to think about any of it. Eames gets out of bed, and wraps his arms around him, and for a moment, just one, it’s like none of it happened and they are free lovers again.

“What do you want to do today? Hm?” Eames asks him. Ordinarily, he’d suggest they fuck their free time away. But, for the first time, the thought of being inside of Eames has no power.

“Well,” Arthur shrugs and looks around the place hopelessly. Everything is already different with the egg actually here and everything. It’s not a warning on his label, it’s not a bad dream, it’s real; He’s a dud-maker that made an egg. He finds he can’t really look at it.

With a grunt, he shakes his head. “What’s on TV?”

“Nothing really,” Eames says. Arthur refuses to let a weird silence fall.

“Up for a swim later? It’ll be warm enough after we eat.” On perfect cue, he stomach rumbles loud enough for Eames to hear and be amused.

Against his back, he feels Eames pull in a deep breath and hold it as he looks out at the ocean, at the distance between it and the nest, the egg. There is a pause, but then Eames pats Arthur’s bottom with a cheery, “Sounds fun. I’ll cook. What do you want? Pancakes, bagels, egg--”

The forger’s eyes bug out of his head, and Arthur feels like he missed a step on the porch. They trade a fast look. Eames snorts, laughs at himself and Arthur shakes his head; looks like they’re never eating scrambled eggs again. He doesn’t have to have read the books to know that this happens to a lot of people in tuck-relationships. Vegan diet is close at hand.

“Bagels are fine,” he laughs lightly. “Make mine an Everything one, please.”

Eames scoots off for the kitchen, and Arthur shakes out a rumpled pair of jeans and steps into them, eye skittering around the room until it rests, uneasily, on that egg.

It looks like such a foreign object in their house, their bed. Alien. Inside is a _human_? Arthur doesn’t think so...Besides the obvious, which is that any egg of his has a genetic code missing fundamental 1s and 0s, this egg is just....an oversized egg. It doesn’t feel like anything to him.

Casting a look around, and hearing that Eames is still busy in the kitchen, Arthur sits carefully on the bed next to the exercised ovum. It feels a little reckless and dangerous to be doing this, but Eames would not have left him alone in here if he wasn’t allowed near it.

Hesitantly, Arthur reaches over and touches it. The shell is room temperature, which is surprising—stupidly he’d imagined a refrigerated thing, like the chicken eggs in the fridge that’ll need to be thrown out. Laughing at himself, he tests the weight and is impressed by Eames’ fertility. _God bless_.

Arthur pushes air out of his lungs and shakes his head. This is a human egg; the most private part of the third gender’s sex—a gift, or so the birds, bees, and tees story goes. _When a man loves a tuck_ , mom used to say, _the tuck will take that love and turn it into something very special_. One side of his mouth lifts.

Lightly, he taps the side with a fingernail. Nothing happens of course; the egg doesn’t split open prematurely, nor does anything… you know… _tap back_.

In the silence, Arthur swallows and returns the egg to the pillow. Because of the sunlight, it almost looks golden. Despite everything, this gift is for _him_ , from Eames, and it’s the best he can do with what Arthur can give him.

It can’t hatch like it’s supposed to, but it’s still one hell of a way to say thanks for loving me. He finds Eames leaning over the toaster, drumming his fingers. Before he’s detected, Arthur surprises him with a hug from left field.

“You’re pretty incredible, Mr. Eames,” he says lowly into the tuck’s shoulder.

“Thank you,” Eames says, laughing breathlessly. Arthur squeezes him, hoping to convey with the embrace all that he can’t say. Before it’s over, Eames stiffens and asks, “Did you lock the door?”

“What door?”

“Sliding glass one.”

“No.”

Eames turns in his arms, “This one’s yours,” he says with a nod at the toaster. With a quick kiss to Arthur’s lips, he is gone back into the bedroom. Arthur clears his throat, scratches the back of his neck. He can hear Eames lock the door, and the bed creak as he checks the thing, and then, after an unexplained length of time, he is back, smiling as if he’d just popped into the bathroom for a sec.

Arthur says nothing. He gets it. Instinct. The whole breakfast would be ruined with Eames being jumpy and distracted, thinking about the door and it’s recently greased track and how they wouldn’t hear anything if someone crept in and snatched the egg. He actually feels kind of stupid for not locking it himself; there’s more than an egg in this house that thieves would be interested in. Namely, the two men with prices on their heads who live here.

As a subject change, Arthur smiles and waves the creamed lower half of the bagel under Eames’ nose. “Do you want my bottom?” he asks wickedly.

They both know Arthur believes the best part of an Everything-bagel is the top, with its colorful splash of seeds and seasoning. The forger takes the plain half happily, and inserts the second bagel that they’ll share the same way. Arthur hoists himself onto the counter, and Eames leans tenderly on the edge. Arthur makes a noise of empathy.

“How are you? Sore?”

Eames nods and shrugs at the same time, moving the cheese around with a finger for an even coat before taking a bite. “And you, my love?”

“I’m fine,” Arthur tears at the warm bread in his hands. “Sorry I stormed out of here. I just needed air.”

“Fine,” Eames says easily. The second bagel springs up, and Eames smears both halves. “Do you think part of it is a jealousy thing?”

“What is?” Arthur asks past the food in his mouth.

“How you’re feeling. The books say it’s normal,” Eames assures. “You might feel like I’ve replaced my need for you with my need to protect the egg...?” it’s not really a question, but Eames is fishing. He suspects.

Arthur thinks about how he had felt when he’d woken up this morning with Eames cuddling something else, and how earlier he had wanted to be in the egg’s place and a minute ago when Eames had run away from him to lock a stupid door...He studies his bagel hard and does not meet Eames’ eye.

“If you’re feeling ignored, darling, I apologize. Just tell me and we’ll sort it, yeah? Like you said, just you and me. Always. Hm?”

“Right,” Arthur says with some relief. Eames puts down his breakfast and sucks the cheese off his finger before touching Arthur’s face. “I’m not too sore to...” his hand trails down to Arthur’s lap, and he sucks on his lip to make his point.

Blood rushes places, but it’s not enough to put anything into action, and Arthur wonders if the books say anything about impotency. Maybe he’ll look it up later, when Eames is asleep or something. Hiding these thoughts, he smiles and kisses him, “Maybe later. You rock for offering, though.”

“Swim?”

“Only if you really want to,” Arthur concedes. Now would be a perfect time to pull the old wait-an-hour-before-swimming rule, which they have never followed in their lives, but Eames is already shaking his head resolutely. “I have been trapped in this house for days. Sunshine will do me good, let’s go.”

They change into their trunks and race into the water. It’s cold, but not too cold, and the sun has warmed up nice and hot on their skin. Arthur sees Eames watching the house a little too closely, and when a volley ball from next door lands on their deck, the tuck is out of the water and shouting at the kid to get away from the house.

“Sorry, Jon,” Arthur pants as he skids to a stop between the terrified fourteen year old and Eames, all tensed and ready to kill. “Sorry—nesting! We’re nesting. So.”

Dawning comprehension smooths out the pimply face, and he points at Eames’ revealed pouch. “Oh. Dude! No way! Cool!”

Eames is still on the verge of growling, and Arthur laughs and nods, “Yeah, so it’s like a territory thing—“

“Oh, yeah, totally!” Jon backs up out of their yard completely, a big smile on his face. “No prob dudes, catch you later, I wanna see the little guy when he breaks out!”

The teenager runs back to the game he was playing down the beach. Arthur squints over at Eames, who is getting the key and chain off his neck.

“He wasn’t going into the house,” Arthur assures.

“I know. I still didn’t like it,” Eames’ voice is rough. He unlocks the door and rips it open, stands dripping on the threshold, letting all the air-conditioning out. He just stares at the egg, untouched, right where he left it. “If it’s a waste, why am I like this?”

Arthur touches his shoulder blade, but Eames jerks away from him and disappears into the bathroom.

[]

Arthur has scanned the index of the dud book and found all that he needs to know.

“Eames, it says the first egg is hard for you tell, you know, what’s up, right away. Like you’re too distracted by the first wave of instincts to know it’s not going to hatch. Chapter 9, young nest, see?”

“I’ve read the goddamn book,” Eames says darkly.

Arthur snaps it shut and tosses it unceremoniously out of bed. “Fine. Whatever. Good night.”

[]

Arthur swings by a store and picks up another stethoscope. The unknown is too much to live with. Plus, if it’s already dead, there’s no sense nesting it for another two weeks. He makes it very clear to Eames that they will take turns checking it once a morning.

“Reasonable,” Eames agrees. Then he waves the necklace away. “No, no, you’re turn, darling.”

His stomach drops. Oh. He looks at the egg. Shit. As casually as he can, he puts on the device and leans over to listen.

At first it is a static scratching as the disk slips around on the shell under his uncoordinated fingers. He thinks he hears something, scratches it around a little more like a radio dial until the station is clear.

One steady, fast little flutter.

With a loud throat clear, he stands up severing the connection before it feels like anything. Eames starts, alarmed, and Arthur shakes his head, assures quickly, “It’s—uh—fine...fine.”

The forger’s fingers twitch for the necklace, but he doesn’t ask for it, and Arthur puts it pointedly in the top drawer of the dresser, closes it loudly. Eames needs to say something. Anything. It’s too quiet. He can still hear it.

“Fuck,” he breathes miserably. He slumps against the furniture and pinches the bridge of his nose. Suddenly Eames is at his back, rubbing his shoulders. “Tell me what you’re feeling.” Arthur shrugs and shakes it head. Eames rubs the tension away and leaves a light kiss on his ear. “I love you.”

“I know,” Arthur turns and wraps his arms around him. “I love you too.”

“It’s incredible isn’t it? Hard to believe it’ll stop ticking...”

“But it will,” Arthur says painfully. He swallows. “And _I’m sorry_.”

Eames hushes him. “No stop. This... is our life happening,” he states with a shrug. “Okay? Like we always knew it would. So what, no more eggs benedict, but I think that’s a punch we can take.”

Arthur nods with his eyes closed and laughs. They are tougher than suburban house wives, after all. Maybe they can beat this...

[]

“Not that side, please,” Eames says when Arthur tries to climb into his usual side of the bed.

“Why?”

“I hardly slept last night, kept thinking you’d roll over on it.”

“Eames, I don’t move in my sleep. You know this.”

“Just. Humor me, yeah?”

Arthur sighs and climbs in on the other side. Eames keeps his back to him, fussing with the egg.

“Alright, love?” he asks when Arthur fails to hit the light. “Oh, blimey, I’ve done it again. Sorry. C’mere, let me hold onto you. Make you feel better?”

“It’s not...I don’t know, Eames. The way you are with it.... Maybe part of it is just this weird... _jealousy_ is a big word, but, I mean, yeah. I guess--It’s a priorities thing,” he pounces on the moment of clarity in his head. “Like you’re not focused on what you need to focus on. Not me per se, but like...I don’t know, man, it’s just weird, under the circumstances. Like a normal egg, whatever, but my egg...”

“I am preparing for the worst, Arthur, believe me,” Eames says. “There’s just also about a million other things I have to do, too. It’s easy for you—like any stud you can make them and leave, but I’ve got to stick it out.”

“ _Studs_ make them and leave,” Arthur says, shaking his head. “But a _dud_ takes care of his own mess. That’s all Dad pounded into me from the day I hit puberty...”

“You make it sound like you eat the egg like my hamster ate her young.”

“Your hamster did what?”

“She bit their heads off.”

“Why?”

Eames shrugs. “All part of the animal kingdom, instinct thing. She knew they were no good, or it was a food chain thing, a little cage. What the fuck ever, I just mean that’s what you reminded me of, the way you said that. Clean up your mess.”

“I’m not eating the egg, or smashing it or rolling it down a drain pipe, okay, so stop freaking out.”

“That last one was too thought out to be a passing example.”

“A story I heard on the news once, not my idea.”

“Sewer joey, nice.”

“It happens.”

“Makes a turtle baby a little bit poetic, doesn’t it?”

“Yeah it was a beautiful idea,” Arthur says softly, planting a kiss to the part in his hair. “Romantic. That’s why I love you.”

[]

_“It could be a while,” Eames said, scratching the back of his neck in doubt._

_“_ A while _,” Arthur grunted with emphasis. There was silence in the car. Did they want this? It was a lot of money. But did they need it? It could mean no sex for anywhere from two weeks to nearly a year… and that was a_ long _time. But... they would see each other almost every day, and it was_ A LOT _of money._

_“So, I don’t know, Arthur, what do you think?”_

_“Well, if it turns out to take a while… I don’t know; we’ve never gone that long...” he said. “But, damn, we can’t really pass up a chance like this. A pair of fucking sitting ducks. If we don’t, some asshole will, and then we’re out a pretty penny and for what?”_

_Eames nodded along, and shook a finger at Arthur’s logic. “’Xactly, darling, ‘xactly! And it might not even take more than a month or two at the most…”_

_“It could be a year.”_

_“That’s worst case scenario,” Eames countered, “And not that I am not eternally in love with your cock, but let’s face it, we are big boys who can take care of ourselves—and we have dreams to get us through. So...so I think we can do it.”_

_“Should do it.”_

_“Yes. Yes. Should. Stupid to pass up an opportunity like this, mate.”_

_Arthur grinned, because Eames only called him “mate” when they were playing straight men. They traded a satisfied, firm look, an understanding. They would do this job; play a pair of men wholly different than their true personalities, and, ergo, not touch each other until it was over. However long that may take. Professionals._

_Plus, when it was over, and they finally_ did _reunite..._

_Arthur cleared his throat and shifted in the seat, refocused on driving. Eames’ hand floated over the cup holders full of loose change and sticky stuff to rest heavy and warm on his thigh. The driving point man’s first instinct was to shake him off, but they weren’t working_ just _yet..._

_He grinned. Eames’ hand strayed. He hit the blinker for the next exit, where there was a sign for a motel._

[]

_Junior._

It wasn’t something Eames meant for Arthur to hear, but there it hangs in the air, where it slipped out in the middle of a sentence about his and the egg’s day. The forger knows what he said, and he is trying with all his salt to pretend like it is no big deal.

It isn’t working, because to instill confidence in a lie, the liar has to believe it first.

“And after that, I...Alright, darling, fuckin’ hell. So I call the egg junior sometimes. It’s... have to call it _something_ …”

“You talk to it,” Arthur reiterates blankly. His fingers are shaking as he unties his shoes but he does a good job of hiding it from Eames. Behind him, deep in his nest of pillows and blankets and junk food, Eames surrenders and rubs his face. “Yes....And now you’re pissed with me.”

Too quickly to be real, Arthur shakes his head as he undresses. “I just think you’re going a little overboard.”

Eames swells and places a gentle hand on the egg that is out of sight under the pillowy fortifications. A muscle is jumping in his jaw, and Arthur doesn’t miss how his eyes rest on the stack of books on the side table. He speaks very maturely, “I think I’m acting perfectly naturally how a tuck with an egg is supposed to act, Arthur. Maybe it’s you being a little too pessimistic about all this.”

“ _Pessimistic_?” the word hurts, somehow. Arthur knows he’s not usually miss molly sunshine, but damn. He thought he’d been maintaining a very realistic outlook in this. The point man’s anger is backlash from the sting and thusly out of his normally rigid control. “I am keeping my head on straight; I’m preparing for when this fucking thing goes south, Eames! What are you doing? _Y_ -y _our picking names_ for Christ’s sake!”

Eames laughs dryly and shakes his head, not even looking at him anymore. “You’re just being a narrow minded git.”

A level of calmness falls over the point man quite suddenly; the eye of his rage, and he whispers, “What did you just say?”

“You heard me,” Eames bites back, unafraid.

“Say that again, mother fucker,” Arthur growls. It’s a dare he doesn’t expect to be met, one that usually means he’s won, because Eames won’t repeat it; he only repeats things he means.

But Eames cleans up his snacks, makes the egg comfortable, and then looks Arthur dead square in the eyes. “Narrow. Minded. Git. Arthuuuur,” he says plainly, loud because Eames never whispers when he is angry. Arthur’s fists clench and his whole body tenses, but Eames barks with an uncontrolled, maniacal laugh, “What are you going to do, hit me? I will _break your fucking neck_ , I swear to God!”

It’s not a threat, more like a frantic warning, and it stops Arthur dead in his tracks before he even moves to attack. It would be about the stupidest thing a man could do, attack a tuck in his own nest. The core of Arthur’s anger evaporates in the warm appreciation that even right now, when he has primal instincts to protect a dying baby, Eames is looking out for him, too.

A potent yearning twists Arthur’s insides. He wants to be in that egg’s place, next to Eames day and night, the center of his world. He should be. He was and he will be--but first this shit has to end. Bad things are going to happen, Arthur knows this. But Eames is like Kristen. He wants to believe in that tiny possibility, and he is going to be _hurt_ for it.

“God damn it! This egg is screwing up everything! Eames! We’re threatening to kill each other and for what? _For what_? Huh?” he shakes his head at the lump in the bed, and his eyes are far away and sad, “It’s dying...”

“No it’s not, love,” Eames whispers, because he only whispers when he is making wishes. “It’s not. Look. Listen,” he pulls the new necklace from the pile of stuff on the table. “Just listen to the heart.”

“No.” Arthur says firmly. He stands up. “I’m not going to, and you shouldn’t either.”

“But it’s—“

“—it’s just going to be _worse_!” Arthur shouts, ripping at his hair. “So we start listening every day, and we hope and we pray and then we wake up one morning and there’s nothing to hear--did you think about that?”

The corners of Eames mouth pull down hard and he clears his throat, shifts lower like he just wants to disappear under the blankets for a while. He shakes his head. It annoys Arthur, and he grits his teeth.

“You’re always so fucking greedy, man. You just take what you want when you can get it, you don’t care where it’ll take you, what’ll it do--” his throat closes, so he stops talking and cracks a few knuckles. Slow and easy, Arthur lowers himself to the foot of the bed, and takes hold of Eames’ foot through the thick comforter. “One in three hundred... That’s not us, baby.” Eames whispers something, and Arthur cocks an ear toward him. “What?”

“Arthur... look I... _Our_ egg, right?” he lifts it very carefully so that Arthur can see the dull gleam of light off the smooth, egg-white shell. “Remember when we made it? Right before the O’Riley job when we couldn’t stand the thought of going without. It wasn’t just a fuck, remember? It was you and me and we...” Eames huffs, laughing because he never uses the phrase _we_ _made love_ unless he’s being sarcastic. “I love you so much, you know that, and this egg came of that.This egg _is_ us, Arthur... And if it doesn’t work then...” he shakes his head and slips under the fortifications, where his voice is stronger, but muffled, “Then I’m sorry, my love, but _we_ can’t work.”

A tremor, and hot water shakes out of Arthur’s eyelashes. The drop splashes heavy on the back of his hand where he still holds Eames. His lungs have stopped, and his heart is turning. He knew this would happen. He fucking _knew it_.

“Fine...” Arthur gasps lightly. He stands, hastily dries his face as he collects his bag. At the familiar sounds of hasty packing, Eames’ head peeks out. “Where you going?”

“Better start now,” he says tightly.

“Arthur--”

“No. I get it. Don’t worry.” He is already out the door with the bag on his shoulder. The feeling of the clean break is sharp and thin. It rings like a toasted flute of champagne, but it’s hollow. It’s dark. It’s cold. Arthur keeps walking. Eames doesn’t come after him.

He can’t leave the nest, Arthur reminds himself. He’d follow if he could. He _will_ , when the egg doesn’t hatch; he’ll crawl back with excuses about biology and instincts...It’s a comforting thought, but Arthur’s mind doesn’t stop there. It flies on down the road, and he sees that they’ll go through it all over again.

On the freezer in the kitchen, there is square pad of paper and pen. Under Eames’ slanted writing reminding them to buy peanut butter to satisfy his craving, Arthur writes,

**For when it doesn’t hatch—**

**I’m so sorry.**

**I told you I’m a freak.**

**Find someone who can do it.**

**You’ll be a good dad.**

**\--Arthur**

[]

Kristen is always happy to help Arthur out whenever he’s in New York, gives him a place in her temping agency if he needs to lay low and make enough to feed himself while the multiple zeroes in the hot money of his off shore accounts cool off.  Sitting in cubicles doing menial work is rather soul-sucking if stretched out for too long, but if it’s just for a couple of weeks the spreadsheets stay fun, so Arthur likes it well enough. And it helps his parents to believe it when he and Kristen tell them he really is half decent.

He hasn’t told his sister why he is in New York this time—not that she has asked, naturally assuming he has just conned some sad sack out of thousands and needs to lay low—and he hopes she doesn’t remember that time a year ago now when she wouldn’t stop asking so he’d told her that he was seeing someone and it was serious. If she remembers that, she’ll ask and he’ll have to lie.

Because no way is he telling the truth. He can’t look Kristen in the eye and tell her that he left someone to deal with a dud all alone. He can’t even look at himself in the mirror, can’t stomach the thought of his own disgusting actions. But he can’t go back. He’s barely holding it together now and if he goes back and has to see Eames’ face when the heart inside that egg stops…

_Remember when we made it? It wasn’t just a fuck remember? It was you and me and we…_

He clamps down on the memory of Eames’ hopeful, loving voice as he begged Arthur to believe in impossible odds. He shuts it all out, attempting to eradicate it from his head with sheer will power. The best he can do at this point is try to pretend none of it ever happened.

Arthur has been telling the people in the cubicles around him to call him _Trent_ and weaving stories about being from Canada so that he can be someone else for a while. So he won’t be the monster he is. So he won’t be the pathetic excuse for a human being that he is, broken and longing for what he can’t have, not feeling whole.

So he won’t be the guy who lost his breath and doubled over with his eyes squeezed shut when, on the subway, a guy with a British accent called out “Darling!” and he turned as if Eames had called for him. It was just some fucker whose little dog had gotten loose.

That was this morning, a few hours ago now, and Arthur has only just gotten his head back on his shoulders from it, has only just started to fall back into his Trent character and the con he is playing against himself when the elevator rings through the room and he glances up—and loses his grasp on everything.

Eames looks thinner than Arthur has ever seen him. He’s in jeans and a baggy, bleach-spotted hoodie.

Arthur finds he can’t lift out of his chair; he can’t look away. His insides can’t stop soaring forever up at the sight of the tuck he spent almost a whole decade being devoted to, and too many weeks crying over. He watches as Eames scans the room, spots him, and walks steadily over, coming to a stop out of arm’s reach and not making eye contact for any longer than a fleeting glance. He clears his throat and says flatly, “We need to talk.”

“Eames,” Arthur cracks and he closes his fists on unsteady fingers. Then out of nowhere he’s not Arthur, he’s some guy who doesn’t have to deal with Arthur’s shit. He’s the guy before the earth-shattering sex on the London Eye. He’s safe. He smirks, “You look like a terrorist.”

“ _Now_ ,” Eames elaborates through his teeth, ignoring the terrorist jab.

Eames’ eyes on him pierce right through his defense mechanism and he’s himself again, broken in half but still breathing, learning to live with the pain like a clam with a pearl. He coughs, notices that those nearest him have started to notice that he has a very tense, very shady looking visitor with threat burning in his eyes. Trying to keep his voice low, trying to stay in control of the situation, “Listen, it’s a shit ending, but you said so yourself we can’t—“

Suddenly Eames is all energy and strength. His hand is slamming into Arthur’s chest, fingers curling tightly in the front of his shirt and Arthur is bodily pulled out of his cubicle and dragged towards the break room. His voice is low and gruff, “I wasn’t asking, Arthur.”

Those in the nearest cubicles spring out of their chairs, some look like they want to run, but Arthur gives them apologetic looks and goes willingly with his ex-tuckfriend.

Seeing people are in the break room, Eames stops walking and hangs in the middle of the hallway, pulling Arthur to a stop by catching the sleeve of his shirt at the elbow.

“Say it.” Eames says hotly and his eyes have a fire in them—something burning his roguish partner to death from the inside. The bags under his eyes at this proximity are hideous. He could be on meth for the way his skin looks hanging on his bones.

At the sight of it, Arthur gets the urge to crawl under something and bleed to death, but he keeps his spine straight and asks, “Say what, Eames? I told you so?” He gets a very bad taste in his mouth and becomes aware that the janitor’s closet behind Eames means he can get to a sink fast enough.

Eames’ jaw is tight and his words hiss out of him, “Say you’re a fucking coward.” Air puffs from Arthur and it sounds too much like a gasp, a sob at the idea of Eames being alone when he couldn’t find the little fluttering sound with that goddamned necklace. He lifts his hands to take Eames by the sweater and pull him in for a hug but Eames knocks his hands away, hard. “ _Say it_. Say that you didn’t have the balls to stick out what you started.”

“I told you…” It’s a whisper, breath, the best he can do through the tightness inside. He’s hyper aware that there are people around and tears stinging his eyes. “Eames, I’m so sorry. I—you said you didn’t want me if I couldn’t… and…” he huffs and throws his arms out, angry, “I _can’t_ , alright? I can’t make babies and there’s nothing more to it than that!”

Suddenly Eames is grabbing him, turning him, pushing him and then he is in that janitor’s closet. It’s a tight space, it smells like dust and window cleaner. Eames presses him to the wall which means he is forced to stand in the mop sink. Eames’ hand is on his throat.

“Eames, what the—“ Arthur chokes.

“Just. Say. It.”

He has never seen Eames like this—well, not aimed at him—and Arthur decides honesty and compliance is his best option. “I’m a coward.” Eames studies him closely for a moment longer and then his grip lessens and like it’s a spill over the dam, Arthur starts talking, “It was killing me to see you get your hopes wrapped up in it and then you said—“ his voice thins, “you said we couldn’t…”

“Arthur,” Eames cuts in and his palm is shaky against Arthur’s collarbone. “I needed you there.”

“I know, I know,” Arthur tries again and this time succeeds in getting his arms around Eames but the tuck does holds him back—won’t move his arms from between them, holding himself away. “I should have been, baby. I should have been there for you. I wanted to be but…I couldn’t stand there and be helpless.”

With a sniff, Eames lifts his head, “That’s it then? That’s the only reason you left? Because of one stupid thing I said?”

Arthur nods and swallows hard, saying quickly before he can lose his nerve, “But you meant it when you said it and—and it’s just going to keep happening and I’m not okay with that.” He wishes it were different but it isn’t. “I’m not. I don’t want to do this to you ever again. I won’t.”

“Agreed.”

Arthur chokes but before he can get a word in, Eames is lifting his head and—he has a little grin rolled in the corner of his mouth and his eyes are half-lidded, “You’re getting a vasectomy and I’m getting a—whatever the hell they call it when they rip out the eggs and that’s the end of it. Deal?”

Relief jumps out like laughter and Arthur echoes, “Deal.”

“Tell me you would have stayed if I hadn’t made you go.”

“I would have stayed,” Arthur says without hesitation. “I could have faced it if I thought you wanted me even afterward. If I thought you believed we could survive anything; I would have stayed.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t trust in us enough, but, darling, it was one fleeting moment of doubt and then you weren’t there for me to apologize.”

Arthur hushes him, “We’re us again, so it’s okay. All forgotten.”

“I like that. We’re _us_ again; because we—you and me—we really can go through it all can’t we?”

“You bet.”

Silence falls in the closet and Arthur is still holding Eames who still leans his weight on his arms on Arthur’s chest. The tuck breaks the silence; voice the same cheery, down-to-business voice that Arthur has missed so terribly. “Well, now that we have that sorted I have something to tell you.”

“Hmm?”

Eames pulls away and reaches behind him for the switch—with a click they’re in heavy darkness. Arthur laughs, suddenly suspicious that he’s about to get sex, but then a red light from a cell phone screen fills the small space, casting Eames’ face in strange shadows.

“What’s that?”

“It’s the Peek-A-Boo Ap for smart phones, that’s whot,” Eames says and he’s lifting his sweater. “It’s too early for any other kind of light. Books say you’ll blind them if you aren’t careful; but this has been approved by ten out of ten doctors.”

And before Arthur can catch up, Eames is carefully peeling open his pouch and stepping forward, shining the light down inside, “Take a look at what we made together, my love.”

It’s an _impossibly_ tiny little thing with a head and arms and legs, little fucking feet. It’s curled into the curve of Eames’ abdomen and it’s latched onto the nipple in there, pale white as dead skin, head too big, face too flat, but it’s very much alive—it _moves_ , a twitch of its little arm, bending at the elbow. An elbow, functioning and real and someday something someone is going to prop on a countertop and say, _hey dad_.

Arthur’s knees give and he falls back on the wall, making an incoherent noise.

“You were wrong,” Eames’ voice is wet sounding, “one in three hundred and look at her—just look. The odds are us. _She_ is us. I can already see you in her—she has your eyes. They go down in the outside corners, just like yours. God, I’d give my soul if she could have your dimples, too.”

“One in three hundred,” Arthur echoes, feeling too far away. He gently touches the outside of the bulge in the pouch, wanting to feel her move, to affirm the miracle of life they created. He looks up into Eames’ softly lit, smiling face. “She...she made it because she’s yours, Eames. She gets it from you. You’re incredible; you do the impossible all the fucking time and that’s why I love you so fucking much!” His voice fails.

They are silent for a stretch of thudding hearts and shallow breaths of joy, just looking at her. Eames speaks softly,

“She cracked her shell in a kind of J shape, so I’ve thought of J names. What do you think of Josephine, darling? Too cute for our little joey?”

Arthur considers the name, the way Eames says it when a z sound at the s, and smirks, shakes his head. “I love it. It’s got the capacity to be beautiful _and_ fierce. It’s perfect for her.”

With a few wet sniffs, Eames tucks her back in and Arthur kisses him deeply. The closet light comes back on and Eames opens the door; taking Arthur by the hand, “come have a sit and some tea.”

“One in _three_ _hundred_.” Arthur echoes as he is guided in to a plastic chair at the break table. He catches Eames’ hand, “Eames.”

Their fingers lace together and Eames squeezes him. The others in the room ask if Arthur is alright and Eames gives them a smile, “Oh, he’ll get his head on again in a moment. He hasn’t seen me in a while, and I’ve just shown him our hatchling joey.” He pats his stomach right above his pouch.

They make exclamations—give awkward congratulations, shoot alarmed looks askance at Arthur, and then make themselves scarce. Eames extracts his hand and starts to make some tea. Arthur sits there, blankly, for a moment or two and then he springs out of the chair. Pulling on the sweater, guides Eames into the seat, “No, I’ll do it. Sit down. Rest. Um—the microwave. Is that—“

“She’s not a pacemaker, love.”

“Right.”

“And she’s a pound—not hardly enough to make my ankles swell up.”

Arthur laughs nervously and his knees give out again. He takes the seat opposite his tuck. “Jesus Christ—I’m a dad and I don’t know what I’m doing.”

“There’re books for that.”

“I should have been there when she hatched.”

Eames pulls out his phone again, “Got the whole thing on video, didn’t I?”

Arthur grabs the phone lightning fast and Eames scoots his chair closer to watch with him. On the screen is the egg—their egg—the one he should have believed in. He _should have_ believed in it.

Her, what they can create together.

[]

_“Think you can live without this?” Arthur asked with mostly hot breath as he guided his cock to Eames’ wet opening. He sank into the tight heat, relishing the sight of Eames bowing off the bed under him, groaning the right answer._

_Smirking, Arthur took the Englishman’s seeping erection lightly in hand. “Tell me how you’re going to survive so long without this,” he thrust on the last word, made Eames feel how big and hard he was._

_Humming, he pulled Arthur down into a kiss, clenching around him. Arthur moved inside of him to satisfy his own maddening need for friction, but he forced himself to slow down and stop—they had to make the most of tonight. That was how Arthur planned to get by; by doing it all right then and there. A harvest of Eames for a cold winter._

_“Darling,” the forger gasped. “I’ll tell you what I’m to do without you... I’ll close my eyes, and—unf—I’ll touch myself like you do—ah, oh, Arthur, yes.” He hummed again as Arthur delivered his best hand job. Panting for breath, Eames writhed beneath him. “A-and I’ll ride your dildo--so fucking hard, darling, I won’t stop until I’m--screaming and coming twice for you. I’ll come twice for you!”_

_Arthur twitched violently inside of the forger, and he had to stop his teasing little thrusts to get himself back under control. One side of his mouth lifted as he laughed. “Twice, huh? Do you love me that much?”_

_All action momentarily stilled, Eames reached up to caress the man still buried inside of him. “Yes. I do, Arthur. I love you very much.”_

_The point man blinked, stunned. It wasn’t often—only a handful of times during their entire relationship—that they’d leveled those words at each other so seriously, with eye contact—never before as their bodies were merged._

_Arthur gulped; had the feeling this was because they could die before they ever got to do this again. But rather than reprimand the forger for jinxing them with so little faith, he was entirely grateful that it had been said. It wasn’t just his cock that would be missed; Arthur had needed to hear that._

_He lowered to his elbows so that their noses brushed. “Eames…Quinn,” and that was a first; Arthur had never used the forger’s given name before. He traced the lip of the pouch, drawing a low frequency shiver out of the tuck. “I think I love you more.”_

_“’S not actually possible,” Eames whispered. Then he grinned. “But lovely of you to say so.”_

_Arthur shook his head and he shifted as if to get back to work. “You’re wrong.”_

_Clenching around him again, relaxing above the waist into the pillows, Eames shook his head mutely, resolved to have the bigger heart here. Arthur didn’t argue as he resumed a comfortable pace and drank in the breathtaking sight of pliant and willing Eames beneath him, moaning Arthur's name like he was God._

_It was just not possible. It wasn’t. No way did Eames love him more. Arthur loved more—but he could never argue it because it just wasn’t romantic to bring up exes. Yet it was the truth. Eames was an attractive tuck who had been in love at least two other times before he met Arthur. Good men who’d died in bad wars; immortalized in ink on the skin beneath Arthur’s hands._

_He trailed his lips over those names, and then his own name there, etched carefully within the design of a red pair of dice. Arthur had never loved anyone before. He was giving Eames more of himself than the tuck could ever return but that was okay because at least Eames was giving Arthur all that was left._

_So maybe in a way that_ was _more…_

_“No,” Arthur gasped aloud involuntarily. Not possible, he reminded himself stubbornly. He pushed harder, biting into the hot skin, kissing the spot. Eames panted and moaned, didn’t ask what Arthur was talking about, but got it, countered in a stutter of breath,_

_“Ye-es, darling. But I do.”_

_Arthur grunted a negative and adjusted his angle and gripped the shining erection between them with a firm grasp so that Eames cried out, eyes crossing before he shut them and buried his face in the pillows. “No,” he whined like he didn’t want to believe it._

_“That’s right,” Arthur panted, smiling at the turned tables and raining kisses down on him. “Me more—everything more._ All of it _.” He gritted, thrusting harder. “Hear me? Hear me, baby?”_

_“Uh-huh,” Eames choked, tightening around him as a tear slipped out of his scrunched eyes. He shuddered and thrust up to meet Arthur’s hips. His voice was thin, “All of you—“_

_“That’s right,” Arthur rasped, on the edge. He mashed his teeth to outlast him, but he just couldn’t. He was breaking open and filling the condom. “Yours--”_

_“And yours,” Eames moaned with him, arching beneath him as he began to shoot too. What little breath he had left escaped him at the sight of the quantity Eames gave him, ropes and ropes of it, hot on his skin._

_Eames clenched around his spent cock, panting, curious of the winner. Arthur made a guttural noise and gripped his hip to make him stop. The sparks shooting up his sensitive flesh made his fillings throb, and he laughed. “Give me a minute.”_

_Eames snickered and laid there trying to catch his breath, looking up at Arthur like he was learning something. Arthur had to get off his knees. He went down on top of Eames, the jizz warm between them like glue only made him draw in breath—but they’ll have a shower next so they could get as filthy as they wanted._

_He grinned coyly at Eames, who looked alarmed—Arthur was so usually prompt at clean up. His bulky arms draped over him. “Think we can go without this, then?”_

_Wordlessly, he kissed Eames and pulled out of him, began to clean up. His heart was dancing, and he let it show in his smile as he got out of the bed. He dropped a wink down to the seductive sight of a wrecked and panting Eames still in the sheets._

_He threw the dripping condom in the trash. “We can do anything.”_


End file.
